Fevered Calls
by DalekCyberAngel
Summary: Nearing the end of Sherlock's hiatus, he falls ill which results in a fever, as he closes in on Moran and Adair, his fever starts getting worse. In his delirium, he calls a person he really should not have called.
1. Chapter 1

He closes the door behind him and walks towards the sink. Sherlock groans at the pain radiating from his right side. That man sure did know how to put up a fight, too bad it didn't protect him from receiving two bullets to his chest. He looks down at the wound on his right side, the bleeding's finally stopped, it isn't deep enough to require stitches which means all he has to do is clean it, cover it and hope to god it doesn't get infected. He doesn't want another infection. Last time he had an infection it resulted in a fever that required bed rest for three days, being coddled by Mary, and then putting his mission on hold for a week. He cannot afford to waste any more time being ill again, not when he's so close to finishing and returning home.

He knows what he needs to do. He needs to dampen the bath flannel and gently clean the wound so that he doesn't cause himself too much pain and cry out. The walls are terribly thin and he doesn't want to alert Mary, he tries to reason with himself, the real reason is more because he doesn't want to hear how pathetic he sounds. He grits his teeth together as he puts the blooded flannel down in the sink and takes the antiseptic out from the medicine cabinet just above the sink. He breathes heavily through his nose as he applies antiseptic to his wound, it stings a lot, it always does. He thinks he should be used to this feeling by now, goodness knows he's used it countless times these past two years. When he's finally finished with the cream, he gives himself a moment to breathe, that hurts far too much every time he uses it. He removes the gauze from the medicine cabinet and starts to cover his wound with practiced ease, it's something he's done many times before the last two years, he's practically an expert at it.

Looking into the mirror of the medicine cabinet door, he takes in his appearance. A nasty bruise is starting to form on his right cheek, a nasty cut just above his left eyebrow but it isn't bleeding and he sees no need to waste precious antiseptic on something so small and unlikely to become infected. One of his contact lenses had fallen out sometime during the fight, if the fact of that only his left eye is green and his right eye is blue is anything to go by. His red fringe is falling in front of his eyes, but there's no need for him to get it cut, he still needs it as part of his disguise. And he just looks so tired, so tired and worn, his cheekbones are protruding far more than they ever did before, the bags under his eyes never seem to disappear, and there are deep frown lines across his forehead. He doesn't remember the last time he willingly had a nice and long rest that hasn't been brought on by illness. It was before his fall, which is something he's certain of.

He needs to be leaving by tomorrow afternoon. He can't stay here much longer. There are only two more people left to take down and both of them are currently residing in London, and to get to London, he needs to leave Birmingham.

Sherlock turns and walks out of the bathroom and into the living room. He needs to start thinking of a new disguise if he's going to be at London tomorrow. That shouldn't be too hard, a nice oversized hoodie, baggy jeans, worn trainers, and contact lenses that change his eye colour from blue to brown should do. He's thought about a disguise so many times the last two years that it only takes him a few minutes to come up with one now. It's so easy to blend in with the crowd when one knows what to wear. The oversized hoodie and baggy jeans will make him appear to be one of those young and ruthless people nobody cares for and likes to avoid, not many people will question a disguise like that. A name though, that may take a while longer. He's got many fake identification cards, he's used almost all of them many times before, there's only three that he hasn't used yet, and if he remembers correctly the names are: Hayden Smith, Sherrinford Jones, and Andrew Henderson. Sherrinford Jones will likely attract too much attention with it being an uncommon name, which only leaves Hayden Smith and Andrew Henderson. He's used both the names for a case before, it's unlikely anyone will suspect anything, as both cases were six years ago which is a rather long time.

A knock at the door brings Sherlock from his thoughts.

"James," The voice calls through, "are you in there?"

Sherlock recognises the voice to be Mary's. He mentally curses himself; he should have known she would check up on him, she has been ever since he fell ill two months ago.

Mary is his next door neighbour; she lives in the flat next to his. She was one of the few people that welcomed him when he first moved in three months ago and the only person to remain socialising with him. He's grateful for it, it's better than the loneliness that threatens to consume his every thought, but sometimes it only reminds him of his times with John, especially when she grows concerned of his health, though that may just be because she is a nurse. He knows John will like her; she's what John would call intelligent, beautiful, funny and interesting. Sherlock doesn't understand why John will think this, but he just knows that John will.

"Yeah." Sherlock replies, "Just give me a moment."

His recent disguise is of a young man known as James Pattenden – a young lad in Birmingham for the chance to start a new life. The personality is very easy to slip into – James is a nervous man that doesn't socialise often. Simple as that, Mary's fallen for it, as have many others he's come across. Sherlock picks up the t-shirt lying across the table; he knows it's clean as he put it there last night before setting of to get little sleep. He puts the t-shirt on, removes the contact lens from his left eye and quickly goes to answer the door, smiling shyly at her as he does.

"Mary." He says sounding somewhat shocked, "What are you doing here?"

Mary's mouth falls open. "James, what happened to you?" She asks raising a hand to gently finger the area around the wound above his eyebrow.

"I... It's nothing." Sherlock stammers wincing at the touch. Oh yes, it's definitely easy to fall into the personality of James Pattenden. "Just a slight struggle that happened with an old friend." He steps aside to let her enter the flat.

"A slight struggle does not result in cuts and bruises, James." She reprimands him as she enters the flat.

Sherlock only nods as he closes the door. He lowers his head and hunches his shoulders almost embarrassed.

Mary sighs and smiles sadly at him. "Did you at least put some antiseptic cream on it?" She asks concerned.

"Of... Of course." Sherlock lies, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Sherlock looks into her soft blue eyes and tries not to think about the person with the similar colour.

Mary gives him a strange glance but accepts his answer with a nod, her brown hair falls over her eyes and she swiftly pushes it back.

"Would you like something to drink?" Sherlock asks nervously, reminding himself that James has manners.

Mary frowns at him and Sherlock tries to think if he's gone wrong anywhere. James' cheeks always flush in embarrassment when he lies to her, and James always asks her if she wants a drink whenever she visits, he must appear distracted somehow.

"What's wrong, James?" Mary asks him softly, concern within her tone.

"N... Nothing." Sherlock stammers. He needs to quickly think of a reason as to why James would be so distracted. James isn't a man to socialise often, and he likes to hold onto those he calls his friends, Mary is considered James' friend, Sherlock needs to go to London tomorrow afternoon to complete his mission, could he tell her about the move?

"You can tell me." She murmurs softly.

"I'mmovingtoLondontomorrow." Sherlock blurts out quickly and quietly.

"What was that?" Mary asks confused, "You're moving to London? Tomorrow?"

Sherlock nods slowly, "Yes, I received a job offer this morning, the pay is better than what I'm receiving here."

Mary looks sad for a moment but soon her face lights up. "That's great, James!" She says cheerfully.

Sherlock nods but doesn't look at her.

Mary puts her hands on his face and turns him towards her. "I mean it." She says, "Now, don't forget to call me at least once a week, mister. I know how lonely you get, and I would love to hear more about your time in London."

Sherlock nods once more. He doesn't have much intention of calling her when he moves back to London, she'll move on with her life and forget him, despite how much she may like their friendship, she will move on and forget him. It's what people do. But Mary is a very determined person when she wants to be, and if she wants him to call her once a week then that is something he shall do, unless he wants to have her calling him frequently to hear about it, which he really doesn't.

"Do you have a plaster?" Mary asks unexpectedly, removing a hand from his cheek to lightly finger the wound above his eyebrow.

"It doesn't need a plaster." Sherlock protests, wincing as she fingers it.

"It could get infected or reopened. You'll need something to cover it." Mary replies almost scolding him.

"But, Mary, it'll be fine. I've had worse." Sherlock replies, grateful she hasn't noticed the wound in his side. He doesn't want to imagine how she'd react to that.

"James, you need something to cover it." Mary says softly.

"I will be fine, Mary." Sherlock says moving away from her. He knows he won't win this, not with James' personality, with his own he probably could, but not with James'.

Mary ignores him and goes to walk into the bathroom. Sherlock looks down at the floor, his shoulders hunching over, trying to make him appear nervous. There's no stopping her from entering the bathroom, which also means there's no stopping her from noticing the blooded flannel. He only hopes she doesn't realise about the wound on his side.

Sherlock waits; a small gasp is heard, followed by a sudden rush of footsteps. Sherlock looks up from the floor, Mary is looking at him, sad and concerned as she holds the bath flannel in her hand.

"What happened, James?" She asks softly.

"I... I told you, Mary." Sherlock stammers shifting on his feet, "I had a struggle with a past friend."

Mary shakes her head, "I know you're lying, James. There's too much blood on this for it to belong to your head wound."

Sherlock's cheeks flush in embarrassment as he looks from her to the flannel. "But it's f... fine, Mary. I've already taken care of it."

"Will you let me see it?"

Sherlock takes a step back from her. "I've already taken care of it." He repeats.

"Please?"

Sherlock hesitates and then nods his head slowly. He puts a hand on the bottom of his t-shirt and slowly raises it up until he's revealed the white and slightly red gauze plastered on his right side. Mary drops the flannel and walks towards him; gently she peels back the gauze and examines the wound in his side. She frowns and looks up at him.

"James, what happened?" She asks softly, "I know a stab wound when I see one."

"Nothing! Nothing happened." Sherlock replies quickly and nervously.

"Jamie, you need to tell someone."

That's the nickname. Mary gave it to him when he recovered from the fever two months ago, Sherlock's never liked it, she always uses it when she wants him to do something or for some other reason.

"I... It's fine, Mary, really." Sherlock replies stepping to the side to avoid her hands.

Mary doesn't respond. She looks up at him sadly and says, "Is that why you're going to London?" She questions quietly, "To avoid the one who nearly... killed you?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "I have a new job down there."

Mary nods and looks back down at the wound; gently she places the gauze back over it, trying not to think about how she almost lost her friend.

"You're going to need antibiotics for that. Just to be sure it doesn't get infected. Who's going to take care of you then? I most certainly won't be." Mary jokes.

Sherlock smiles slightly and pushes his t-shirt back down.

"I'll be back in a moment." Mary says walking towards the door, "Don't go anywhere."

Sherlock watches her leave, he waits for the door to close before he breathes a sigh of relief, and the tension that he never realised was there, drops from his shoulders. That was close, too close for his liking. He should really get going soon.

* * *

AN: I realise this has been done many times before, but I wanted to do my own version and make it slightly different to those already written.

I hope you enjoyed it, have a nice day!

~Steffii


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I am terribly sorry about the majorly long wait. I mysteriously managed to block on my Laptop around Christmas time, only just gotten it unblocked. Thank you all for the follows, favourites, and reviews! I greatly appreciate it!

* * *

Sherlock paces around the flat trying to ignore the burning in his side, he's had far worse and far more painful ones than this, but it certainly hurts more than expected. Sherlock looks down at his watch, there's a train leaving at three-thirty, it's now two fifty-six. Picking up his backpack (he doesn't need to take anything, only his laptop and the folders. Someone else can do something about the things he left behind), he slings it across his shoulders and looks down at himself. He feels pathetic. The oversized dark red hoodie with the words "I love London" spread out across the chest, the black baggy jeans, and the well-worn white trainers. He hates it. He wants to go back to being Sherlock. Intelligent, manipulative, sociopathic Sherlock. Not these dim-witted people without any proper purpose other than being an effective disguise for him to hide behind! His shoulders sag slightly; he pushes the feeling away, and sets off. He leaves the keys under the potted plant next to his door as that's where his landlord expects to find them, he would leave them with Mary, but Mary had left for work earlier in the morning and had given him strict instructions to call her when he gets there, to call her at least once a week, and to get some rest so his side wound doesn't get infected. He almost wants to laugh at the suggestion; one can't rest when one is hunting down the last two criminals of the world's most dangerous crime web.

Sherlock finds himself wondering how much London has changed since he left two years, six months and five days ago. He'll need to rework the map in his mind palace once he gets there, if he ever gets chased by Moran, Adair, or anyone else, then he'll need to know where he's going, he can't run left just to discover they're doing road works for a new shop, he can't run right to go through the alley and into open space if they've destroyed the open space and replaced it with houses. He shall need to reconstruct the map in his mind palace before he does anything else.

Sherlock spends the entire train journey sitting next to a man who smells like a wet goat, of course, being a newly homeless farmer does account for some of the smell. Once the train stops at his platform, Sherlock puts his hood up, slings his bag across his shoulder and walks quickly off the train, keeping his head down as he avoids the mad rush of people. He folds his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders and looks down at the pavement; he knows all about body language, doing this should hopefully give people the message to leave him alone, but then people can be amazingly stupid at times. A wave of emotions run through him as he steps outside and into the sunshine, he pushes them down, from the bottom of his heart to the pit of his stomach, but they keep rising up and making themselves known. He's anxious, he's nervous, he's worried, he's excited, he's relieved, he's happy. Why is he feeling all these? He doesn't like them, he shouldn't be feeling them, and the mission isn't complete yet, so there's no need for the feeling of relief, excitement, and happiness. There are only two men left to find and hunt down, it is only then he can feel relieved and happy, but even he knows it can take up to several months to track and hunt down two men, all he needs to do is think about the time he spent in Australia. He shouldn't be feeling anxious, nervous, and worried, it's unlikely that he'll come across anyone that will recognise him, not with the stubble that accompanies one after two days without shaving, the brown contact lenses, the clothes, hunched shoulders, and the red hair. Unless they really focus on him, they shouldn't recognise him.

Taking a deep breath in, wincing from the pain radiating in his side, Sherlock stops in his steps and takes in his surroundings. Mr. Bean's coffee shop is still here, the Subway sandwich shop is still here, in fact, many shops are still where they were before his leave, but is it still there? Walking further down the street, Sherlock searches for the alleyway he would regularly run through when chasing down criminals. It has to still be there. It must! He stops just before the alleyway; oh these people really are thick. They've put a gate up! Why in the world did they do that? Putting the gate up is hardly going to stop people from doing drugs in that alley, the only thing it's going to do is put him in a harder place when he's chasing people down! He shakes his head and walks away, of course they would.

He does this for several hours, until the night falls and the cold weather starts to get to him. He wraps his arms tighter around himself feeling himself beginning to shiver. He may be accustomed to the cold weather, but that doesn't necessarily mean it doesn't affect him. He's glad he decided to reconstruct the map in his mind palace, within his time searching he's discovered that there are road works across several streets, construction on buildings in several others, many buildings have been replaced, many alleyways have been shut off, and the open space between the streets of London and one of Mycroft's many homes has been replaced with a street full of offices and houses. Making his way back to a small house Mycroft kept for him, Sherlock starts to think deeply about how it is he's going to do this. He can spend the night reconstructing his map, he can manage without sleep just fine, and he can spend the next day finding the information about Moran and Adair. He doesn't have much, which is a rather stupid move for him, but he couldn't stay in Birmingham for much longer.

He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, sliding it out of his pocket; he looks at the name of the person trying to contact him.

Mary.

Quickly pressing the answer button, Sherlock moves the phone to his ear.

"Mary!" He says his voice high and nervous as he slips into James' personality.

"Did you forget to do something, James?" She replies with a slight tease in her tone.

Sherlock shakes his head, despite Mary not being able to see. "No, of course not." He replies quickly, "I was just about to call you."

He hears Mary laugh softly; he can almost picture the smirk forming across her face.

"Well?" She says expectantly.

"Well what?" He asks pretending to be confused, his head tilting to the side slightly.

"How's London, James?" She asks, he almost thinks she sounds excited.

He pauses momentarily, thinking what it is that James would say about it. "It... It's nothing special, Mary. It's a bit like Birmingham," Sherlock replies as he crosses the road, hearing the sound of a car horn as he does, "only louder."

Again, Mary laughs softly, "I hope that's not you they're doing that to."

"O... Of course not, I did look before crossing." He feels his cheeks flush from embarrassment, he does hope that it's because James is lying to Mary and not because he feels embarrassed.

"Good," she says softly, "I don't want to hear that you're in hospital because of a silly accident."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, a feeling building in his chest. He does enjoy talking to Mary, he almost hopes it will last after he returns from his fake death, but then he remembers how she's friends with James and not him. She'd likely hate him if she realised James isn't real. Like many people do.

"If I end up in hospital," Sherlock mumbles, "it won't be any fault of my own."

They continue talking like this, long after Sherlock's arrived in the small house that Mycroft's supplying for him, talking about London, talking about how Mary has the chance to get promoted, and how she might be able to visit in several weeks if the promotion happens and if her vacation time gets approved. He nearly wishes it doesn't, he doesn't want her to visit him, not with his mission, and she'll be at great risk, especially if he gets found out. He won't allow it to happen.

* * *

Crossing out the date on his calendar, John sighs softly and limps over to the couch to settle down and watch some television. It's November twenty-first, meaning it's been nine hundred and fourteen days since Sherlock's death, not that he's counting. He just remembers from when he'd counted the nine hundredth day two weeks ago. It'll be Christmas in just over a month. It'll be his third Christmas without Sherlock. He sighs deeply, the first Christmas without Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg had all put in a huge effort to make it a happy one for him, but he just wasn't capable of it. The second Christmas, he was able to throw a party, he was happy, but not as happy as what he could have been. This Christmas... Goodness knows what's going to happen this Christmas; he thinks Mycroft will be involved this year. Hopefully it won't spell disaster, John's still mad at him, even now, nine hundred and fourteen days later.

He stares blankly down at the cane by his leg, he can't wait to be rid of it, he hates the sight of it but he can't go without it, not with his leg being the way it is. The thing brings back so many unwanted memories, so many unwanted feelings. He shudders, the memories coming back and the feelings of pain and agony rolling through him. He puts a hand on his leg and rubs at the muscle hoping to soothe it, he was doing just fine until the other month, the car accident completely undoing everything he'd worked towards and accomplished.

"John."

He jumps at the voice, not realising just how deep into his thoughts he was until that moment.

"Greg." He says looking up from his leg to the man standing in his doorway, "What are you doing here?"

Lestrade looks him up and down, concern forms across his face, but it soon vanishes. "It's Friday night, John." He says eagerly, "What is it we do on Friday nights?"

John frowns, he knows what it is they do, but they haven't done that since the car accident two months ago. "But we haven't done that in months." John replies baffled slightly. He takes in Greg's appearance, the shirt and jeans, the thick jacket; he's been planning this for a while.

"Well it's time for us to start doing it again, John!" Lestrade replies taking John's coat from the hook of the coat hanger and walking towards him.

John shakes his head, "No, I'm not going out tonight."

"I have watched you sit in that chair for the last two months, doing nothing but fall back into the unpleasant memories and the horrible feelings. You're my friend, John; I'm not going to allow that to happen again." Lestrade replies sounding determined and stern as he holds his hand out for John to take.

John stares at the hand before him, what Greg's saying is true, he does seem to be falling back into the unpleasant memories and horrible feelings. Maybe this is what he needs, something to take his mind off the sounds of screaming and gunshots, the sight of a body falling from a roof, the feelings from seeing his best friend dead on the ground, hearing his final words repeat in his mind.

"Goodbye, John."

It worked last time. It helped him move on last time. Why would it not help this time? Leaning forward, John takes the hand and slowly stands up, being careful with the weight on his right leg. He bites back a groan, and is soon putting his coat on and taking his cane.

"So," he says, "where a we off to tonight?" He asks a grin spreading out across his face.

Greg smiles and pats his back, replying eagerly as he does, "I know the perfect place to order pizza and they do have this really cute waitress just waiting for you to sweep her off her feet."

* * *

AN: Assuming Sherlock faked his death in May, this story is set in November. I think it was May. If I'm wrong, please inform me of this.

I do hope I'm doing okay with Sherlock and Mary's friendship, it's a really complicated thing to write at times.

I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day!

~Steffii


	3. Chapter 3

John sleeps fitfully that night. Despite the fun he had with Greg the night before, John sleeps rather restlessly.

Guns.

Shooting.

Metal screeching.

Glass smashing.

People screaming.

A body falling.

The blistering heat.

The freezing cold.

Agony erupting in his leg.

A body.

A person.

A face.

"Goodbye, John."

His eyes fly open and John wakes with a gasp, he's panting heavily, there's agony erupting from his right leg, and he feels like he's panicking with his quick breathing, fast heartbeat and the cold sweat on his body. He waits for himself to calm down before he sits up slowly, lifting his pillows up so he can lean back against the headboard without any pain in his back. He rubs at the pain in his leg; he just really hopes that the pain is because of the car accident two months ago and not because of the phantom pain that's sure to return. Maybe he should stay inside today; if his leg is feeling this bad then he's not going to want to go outside, not today. It's not like he has anything to do, right? Of course not, not since he lost his job last month. Except he has an appointment with Ella today that he needs to go to, but he doesn't want to, not if the pain's going to be bad.

It's only five forty-nine in the morning, he knows immediately that today is going to be a bad day.

* * *

A closed hand rubs at his eyes, trying to rid himself of this feeling. He's so tired. So very tired.

Exhausted.

He wants to sleep. He wants to stop. He wants to rest.

But he can't.

Two more people. That's it. Then he can spend some time ensuring that he's taken the whole web apart. And it will be done. All of them. Everything.

Finished.

Destroyed.

He'll be able to return.

He's so close, yet he's so far.

But he can't. He can't rest until it's over. He's spent the whole night tracking Adair down; he's found the man working at the Yard. He thinks it's him; there wasn't much he could determine from the grainy image from the security camera, he'll need to get actual visual confirmation. He needs to get into the Yard without anyone recognising him. He'll need a reason, a new disguise, but that can be easily arranged. The postman delivering a package, simple as that really, all he needs to do is put a small clock in a box, a clipboard with a piece of paper on top it and anyone will believe he's a postman.

Moran though, he isn't that simple. He really isn't. There is a reason he's Moriarty's right hand man and it's not simply because of how well he can fire a gun. Moriarty trusted him more than anyone else, his intelligence, his skills, his loyalty, his sadistic manner, Moran was everything he needed in a right-hand man , unfortunately that makes him a whole lot harder to kill.

Sherlock's eyes are closing, his head is dropping, and he makes no attempt to stay awake much longer. His head lands with a thud against the table, his breathing evens out, and Sherlock finally gives in to his body's need for rest.

* * *

_"Why are you here, Sherlock?" A voice asks from behind._

_Sherlock frowns and looks around, when did he get here? The walls, the door, the fireplace, the chairs, he shouldn't be here, it's too dangerous. Why is he here?_

_"I told you I never want to see you again, Sherlock." The voice says, it sounds cold, disappointed, hatred lies within the tone._

_Sherlock's eyes follow the voice; soon this is followed by his body turning towards it. His eyes widen in shock, his heartbeat quickens, his stomach drops and he feels himself go cold. He really shouldn't be here._

_John stands in front of him, a dark look on his face and a cold look in his eyes; his fists are clenched and are almost shaking for how tightly John's gripping them. There are several other people behind him, he squints in an attempt to see them, but he can't make them out. _

_"Why are you here, Sherlock?" John asks with the same tone as before._

_Sherlock opens his mouth but doesn't answer him, he doesn't know why he's here, he knows he shouldn't be here because it's not safe, it's too dangerous._

_"Because Sherlock just doesn't know when to stop. He never has done and he never will learn." Another voice says from behind, his voice is cold; anger and hatred lie within the tone. _

_Sherlock looks towards the voice and can now make out the Lestrade's figure – the broad shoulders, the grey hair, the height, the dark eyes with filled with anger and hate. _

_Sherlock shakes his head, "No, it's not true!" He shouts, but no sound comes out of his mouth, as if he doesn't have a voice._

_"Why did we ever let him stay?" A third voice asks monotonously._

_Sherlock takes a step back when he sees Mrs. Hudson; he doesn't like the look within her eyes and the expression amongst her face. It's dark, it's scary, it's just pure unadulterated hate. Mrs. Hudson's never looked at him like that, only with love and kindness, but here she is and with nothing of the kindness she normally shows._

_"You hurt us, Sherlock," John says quietly, "and you didn't care once about us, not at all."_

_"We don't want to see you ever again." Lestrade states clearly and slowly, as if he's talking to a child._

_"You never should have returned to us." Mrs. Hudson says spitefully._

_Sherlock shakes his head once more and refuses to believe what he's hearing. They don't mean it; he says to himself, they're simply angry; it's understandable considering the circumstances. They don't mean it, they don't mean it. He repeats these four words like a mantra in his head as they shout words of abuse at him. Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes deeply, reminding himself to remain calm and to push those feelings of hurt, rejection and betrayal away, they don't mean it. _

_"James?"_

_His eyes snap open in shock, his body freezes and he slowly turns around to face the voice. She's never been here before, how did she even find him? As he turns around to face her, he realises the others have stopped shouting at him._

_"Who are they, James?" She asks, shifting to look around him, curiosity in her blue eyes._

_Sherlock doesn't answer; he never gets the chance as John answers for him._

_"We were once his 'friends'," John says maliciously, spitting out the final word as if it left a disgusting taste in his mouth, "until he decided we weren't needed anymore and threw us away like we were trash."_

_Mary frowns and looks up at Sherlock, "Tell me it isn't true." She whispers sadly._

_"And he'll do the same with you." John continues, "He doesn't have friends. Sherlock doesn't need friends."_

_Sherlock sees Mary's expression change from sadness to fury, her eyes grow hard, her lips become a thin and tight line._

_"I wish I'd never met you, 'James'" She spits out harshly._

_Sherlock looks from Mary to John quickly, this shouldn't be happening, Mary shouldn't hate him, John shouldn't hate him. Nobody should hate him. No. They should accepting him gradually into their lives, John should be worrying about his health, Mrs. Hudson should be fussing over him for being much too thin, Lestrade should be giving him a new case, Mary should be telling him about that angry patient in the hospital._

_Not this._

_Not this hatred and rejection._

_It should stop. Someone make it stop. He has to make it stop._

_"You should have stayed dead, Sherlock."_

* * *

Sherlock wakes abruptly; he jerks away from the table and attempts to slow his breathing down, as he does this he becomes aware of the hand resting on his shoulder. Flinching away from it, Sherlock jumps from his seat ready to attack, he never should have let himself have a moment of vulnerability! It's too dangerous!

"Sherlock, it's me." He says calmly, his hands out in front of him to show his innocence.

Sherlock blinks hard, his eyes bleary from sleep. His mind feels sluggish from the sleep and far too slowly does he become aware of the person in front of him. The suit, the umbrella, the hair, the face, the height, all one person. Someone he hasn't seen in two years, five months and four days, since he left London for what could have been his final time. He lowers his hands and his shoulders slump.

"Mycroft." He says as he looks at the impassive face of his older brother. "What are you doing here?" They've been communicating through emails, there's no need for him to be here, anything that has been said between the pair has been through using multiple and untraceable email addresses.

Mycroft lowers his hands and looks Sherlock up and down, "You should be resting." He responds, refusing to answer Sherlock's question.

"Is it sentiment?" Sherlock asks almost mockingly.

Mycroft looks down sullenly; his silence is all Sherlock needs as confirmation. Mycroft hasn't seen Sherlock in two years, five months and four days, at least, certainly not face to face; his power and contacts didn't extend beyond the outskirts of London. For Mycroft, that was two years, five months and four days of constant worry and fear, knowing that his younger brother is out there, fighting the most dangerous criminal web, with only himself and no resources or people to help him, and no chance of contacting anyone for help. During this time, he has never felt more helpless before in his life. He would receive very little information through emails, they would often state that another person has been taking down and that he's now moving east or north, nothing else, nothing about the damage he may have received, nothing specific about where he's going or who's been taking down, the original is dangerous enough, let alone extra information. Mycroft knew nothing, nothing about his little brother's health, nothing about where he was, what he needs, how he's doing. Nothing. And it's been the hardest time for him.

The brothers stand in silence momentarily, too much is working through their minds, many unanswered questions, many unsaid things, and information not shared.

"Who is she?" Mycroft asks suddenly, looking up at Sherlock as he does.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock responds defensively, his eyes not meeting Mycroft's.

"You know what I'm talking about, Sherlock," Mycroft says with slight urgency, "you spent three hours last night talking to someone on the phone. You know how dangerous it is." He says trying to remind him.

"I am aware." Sherlock replies with regret, "However, nobody will be aware of her as she doesn't reside in London."

"You better make sure of that, it's far too dangerous for you, them, and her." He replies with a warning in his tone. "Are you certain you don't want my help?"

"How's John?" He asks quietly avoiding the question, looking up at Mycroft.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, "Better. He's beginning to see his physiotherapist for his leg and is more open with his therapist, however he is beginning to, shall we say, spiral downwards since his crash two months ago."

Sherlock nods and Mycroft walks away. As soon as Mycroft leaves, Sherlock groans and presses a hand to his side, his wound has been progressively burning more and more since he'd awoken, and something needs to be done before it gets any worse. He can't waste any time at all.

* * *

AN: I'm sorry, I lost my muse, I got writers' block, struggling with John POV of things, I lost the plot (replanned this story now), and got bombarded with a million and one other ideas. I'm not doing well with John's side of things, so that's really slowing me down.

May I just ask something? Do you want me to speed things up? At this rate, I feel the fever and the calls won't happen for too long and with the way it's been planned out, it certainly won't be for a while. Do you want me to pick up the pace? I can do that. Or do you want it to be at this pace?

If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know, it will greatly help me. If you didn't enjoy this chapter, let me know, it will greatly help me. Have a nice day.

~Steffii


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade slings his arm through the sleeve as he puts his coat on; he ignores the uneasy feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't trust the newbie, Harris or something, the guy's only been working with him for two weeks and Lestrade doesn't like him. Maybe it's too early to judge, it's only been two weeks and Lestrade's not really a judgemental type. Except there's something about Harris that he can't quite put his finger on – his abrupt manner when discussing things with the witnesses and members of the team, how he seems to know the way a murderer would work and how the killing would happen, for someone that's only spent a year in police work (as according to his CV, which Lestrade finds equally suspicious) and has no history of anything even possibly related to murderers and how to kill a person, it's unlikely he'd know so much about these things. The whole atmosphere that surrounds him is really unnerving for Lestrade, but it's not something he can openly discuss with others he works with – considering he's only recently re-earned his status as a well-respected Detective Inspector, he doesn't want to destroy it too soon – he needs to wait for Harris to do something, except that could take weeks. Months, even. If Sherlock was here then they'd know within the first few minutes who Harris is, but as Sherlock's never going to return again, it's up to him to find out. Lestrade closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, everything's been so much harder since Sherlock left, cases can take weeks instead of days, occasionally they take months, several have become cold because they're unsolvable, finding the criminals is harder than it ever was before. The strain and the stress of the job became much more apparent and he discovered just how much he relied on Sherlock for help. Not forgetting how he was demoted to a sergeant and it took him months to earn the respect of his co-workers once more.

"Everything okay, Sir?" Palmer asks uncertainly as she stands by the open door.

Lestrade opens his eyes and looks at her, he holds back the mild look of surprise, he really wishes Palmer wouldn't be so silent, at least with Donovan you could hear her shoes clacking against the ground. "Yes, everything's fine." He nods, reassuring her, "What is it you wanted, Palmer?"

Palmer stares at him, not quite believing him, but doesn't question him on it. "Anderson says that they've identified the hair follicles on the victim."

Lestrade nods feeling somewhat relieved, they've been at this case for five days with nothing, it's about time they discovered something. "That's good, get..." Lestrade waves his hand around in a circular motion several times as he tries to remember the name, "Harris on discovering this person. I need to go." Lestrade orders as he walks quickly towards his door.

Palmer frowns, her blonde eyebrows knitting together, "Where are you going?"

Lestrade stops directly before her. "For one," Lestrade responds looking down at his watch as he does, "lunch, for another, I agreed to give John a lift." He knows John won't go if he didn't give him a ride there, that won't take longer than twenty minutes and he can easily pop to Subway for a sandwich, although one can never trust London traffic. With that, Lestrade leaves without saying another word.

He almost walks into someone on his way out of the Yard. He goes to side-step around them when he notices the confusion on the person's face as he looks down at the package within his hands, squinting as if he can barely make out the words written down.

"Need any help?" Lestrade asks, stopping in his steps to ask.

The man looks up at him, dark eyes startled; he nearly jumps back in surprise before it's quickly covered by a shake of the head and a friendly smile.

"No, everything's fine, Inspector." He says as he shakes his head, his voice is deeper than expected and with a soft tone, it sounds vaguely familiar.

Lestrade frowns at the other man and looks him over. The sad gaze in his dark eyes as if he's reminiscing about something, the paleness of his face only made worse by the darkness of his beard and the dark circles under his eyes, the postman uniform almost seems too big for him and the bag seems ready to fall off his shoulder, he can almost make out a thin, jagged scar running down his neck and disappearing under the large clothes. The poor lad clearly hasn't had a decent meal and rest in a while. Lestrade tilts his head to the side slightly, there's something oddly familiar about this man, but he can't tell what.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asks, he doesn't want anyone getting lost in here and he most certainly doesn't want them to come across classified information.

"Quite sure." The man replies as he looks over Lestrade's shoulder, his eyes widen when he spots something and Lestrade notices sweat forming on the other man's forehead.

Lestrade frowns harder and turns his head around to see what the man is looking at; it must be the person he's looking for as there are only people working at their desks, he takes note of Harris, eagerly working through the files Anderson must have given him. Turning back to the man in front of him, he opens his mouth to ask him again if everything's okay, but he is quickly cut off.

"Excuse me, Inspector," He says somewhat impatiently, his eyes hardening as he looks down at his wrist for the time clearly not realising that he isn't wearing a watch, "I have post to deliver and I'm short on time." He finishes barging past Lestrade, his bag hitting Lestrade's waist.

Lestrade simply shakes his head, feeling confused and frustrated. There is something clearly wrong with that person and that bag felt far too empty for there to be any post in it. Lestrade sighs and continues walking towards the door; he can't let John miss his appointment with Ella again, not after last time.

* * *

"I've been talking with your physiotherapist, John," Ella starts, "he says you're doing better, but he feels something's holding you back."

John nods and stares at her gravely, "I keep having these dreams," John says slowly, almost uncertainly, "about the war, the crash, and..." John falters and sighs slowly, "Sherlock." Just saying his name almost brings tears to his eyes, he thought that after two and a half years he'd be able to say the name, but he can't, he's not getting better, he's getting worse.

"What happens in these dreams, John?" Ella asks, looking down at her notebook, looking over the information from the previous session and getting ready to write more down.

John takes a deep breath, "There are guns, people are fighting each other, it's hot and I can feel sweat run down my face, but then I'm suddenly in a car and it's crashing and there's glass everywhere. I can feel the pain in my leg, it's deep and agonising, and suddenly Sherlock saying goodbye." John sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes, ridding himself of the tears beginning to show. It's hard, knowing that the nightmares have returned, the phantom pain that will return with the pain of weakened and damaged muscles, and that he's going backwards instead of forwards like he was before.

Ella looks up from her notebook. "I want you to try something else, John," She says calmly, a thoughtful look upon her face, "once you've awoken, I want you to try altering the end of your dreams, change the outcome of what happened, manipulate it into being a happy dream."

John frowns at her as she suggests this, how could altering the end of his dreams possibly help? Manipulating a dream by making Sherlock survive it would surely only make things worse.

"It will take time, John, but I want you to try it."

John shakes his head and refuses to believe it, "How is pretending something never happened supposed to help at all?"

"It's not pretending, John." Ella explains quietly, slowly in an attempt to help him understand, "These dreams are impeding in your development, I've spoken to your physiotherapist and he says that you shouldn't need that cane if there wasn't something holding you back. Your negative mind-set is affecting your physical well-being."

John closes his eyes and rests his hand above his right eye and sighs as he feels frustration building up inside him, like he needs to be reminded of **that**.

"In one of these dreams, you've explained to me that you're being chased by something, and this something has been chasing you since the war." She explains, taking note of his reluctance, being careful to write it subjectively and not objectively. She looks back at the notes from a previous session quickly after, "Next time you dream about this, I want you to stop and face them, stop them from chasing you, and morph them into something else."

"But what if it doesn't work?" John says slowly, his voice shaking slightly, he still hasn't opened his eyes to look at her. He knows exactly who he's being chased by and that is exactly why he doesn't want to face them.

Ella takes note of the tremor in his voice and looks back up at him. "Again, it will take some time, many things do, John. I've tried this method with many others suffering nightmares and it worked for them, it didn't happen immediately, but it still worked." She neglects to mention how it doesn't work on them all and hopes John wouldn't be among that small percentage. "We'll get through this together." She says with a small smile, "Even if it takes another year."

John lets out a long breath and opens his eyes to look at her. He doesn't want to try it, the idea sounds preposterous! What good could come from changing a dream? It's like asking him to ignore what really happened! If he changes the ending to a dream in which Sherlock dies to Sherlock surviving, then he's just going to be reminded of the cruel reality that Sherlock's still dead and isn't going to return simply because he changed one of his nightmares. That certainly wouldn't lighten his mood. But if he wants to finish these therapy sessions, which are certainly burning a hole in his bank account, then he needs to at least try.

"I'll do it." John says softly as he nods at her, "I'll give it an attempt tonight."

* * *

Harris closes his front door behind him, a dark smile forms at his thin lips and a gleeful feeling builds up in his stomach. It has to be him! Who else would send an unmarked package with a clock inside? Really, he mustn't be as smart as the boss has always said to do something as stupid as that. His fingers tremble from excitement as he pulls his phone out to call someone, his other hand rubbing small circles into his dark hair out of habit. It only takes three rings for the other man to answer.

"Find anything?" The voice asks, he sounds stern and rough with a hard edge that would make a man tremble in fear if they heard it.

"Yes," Harris answers, his voice equally stern as he fights to keep his hands steady and walks to the kitchen. "It's him, I think it's him. It has to be him." He heads towards the drawers and pulls out pen and paper; he needs to write down the details before he forgets them.

"I don't want you to **think** it's him, I need you to **know** it's him." He responds, his voice growing harder and with annoyance in his tone. "You know what our orders are; we can't afford any screw ups."

Harris nods despite how the other man can't see him. He's scribbling down notes hastily with his right hand, if he forgets what he's seen then they won't progress with their mission.

"Give me some time, if he knows who I am then he'll likely return and try to study my life, I can take him down and bring him to you. And he didn't look healthy earlier, so it won't be too hard." Harris says confidently.

"You know what our orders are." He repeats angrily, "Don't get ahead of yourself, especially if he turns out to be somebody else. **Don't** call me again until you know it's him."

Harris puts his phone in his back pocket when the other man hangs up, still scribbling down some notes. They're so close, as soon as they can stop him, they can rebuild their web and return to being master criminals. He just very much hopes it is him. Contempt and disgust flashes across his face, he hates having to work for the police but he is glad that Lestrade's too stupid to see through his disguise.

* * *

AN: **Franzi86**: Thank you so much for your support in that review, I greatly appreciate it!

I'm back! Sorry for the ultra-long wait, my mind and muse never seem to be satisfied with what I've planned mainly concerning Mary which is aided by how nowhere sells ACD's books. Aha, this is troublesome.

Sorry, I'm not too sure how a therapy session would go, I've never had therapy and I certainly can't use NBC's Hannibal for a reference.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, do let me know if you did or didn't. Have a nice day!

~Steffii


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